


And Then There Were Three

by nightcore



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Stanley Uris POV, Stanley Uris' Complicated Relationship With Things He Doesn't Understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcore/pseuds/nightcore
Summary: A story of Stanley Uris and the ways you can love."Patty was it for him--until she wasn’t, anymore. Until his heart that had already grown three sizes pushed itself a little further and allowed for more room."
Relationships: Mike Hanlon/Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	And Then There Were Three

**Author's Note:**

> Minor warnings for mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, but nothing more than canon.

When Stanley Uris was young, he had no interest in romantic love. It did not feel like something unattainable, but rather something that he didn’t get, and Stanley Uris was far more interested in the concrete. He was interested in proven fact, in things he could see, in things he could  _ understand _ , if he put enough work into learning them. He was interested in plants, and colorful rocks, and the old, torn bird book his father gave him when he was young. There wasn’t much more to life than those things, his friends, and the way they made him feel.

In college, Stanley met Patricia Blum. She was tall with long, braided black hair and apple shaped cheeks and a straight-lined nose, and Stanley thought, for the first time in his life, that he may understand romantic love. The thing he felt for Patty, with her sundresses and her laugh that carried, was more than what he felt for his friends back home--so much more, in fact, that he barely even remembered them. He did not dwell on that; memories fade, he had expected them to. Talking to Patty was much more fun. 

Soon enough, faster than either of them had expected, really, Patty got down on one knee and Stanley Uris became Stanley Blum, and the world seemed to fall into place. They got a little house in Georgia with a deck and a birdfeeder, and Stan catalogued every bird he saw in the same old bird book he had all those years ago, though the writing on the margins was unrecognizable. Chicken scratch from hands he no longer thought about; notes from friends long-forgotten.

He was happy. Life was good! Years passed and Patty and Stan never seemed to make it past their honeymoon phase. They celebrated everything together; holidays, anniversaries, Tuesday nights when Stan would get off work early and Patty would have dinner already served, Stan’s favorite rugelach as a centerpiece. Coworkers would bully him with lighthearted jokes about  _ lovebirds  _ and  _ fate _ , and he would laugh them off but never disagree. Romantic love became something he understood so deeply it had ingrained itself in his very soul, like vines of ivy wrapped around brick. You could not pull away one without destroying the other. 

They couldn’t get pregnant. Stan had wanted so badly to have a child; Patty just as much, but nothing became of their nights together. It was disheartening, for sure, but nothing seemed to stop Patty in her endless determination. Years went by and she was barren, but every morning she’d wake with a smile on her face. Stanley thought, as he did most mornings, that he would not have made it this far without her. He knew this for sure.

The call from Derry came unexpected, and with it came mountains of dread. There was no way to expect it, really, that his memories had not faded but that they had been torn away from him, a piece of him missing that he had not noticed at all. It scared him, remembering. Though he loved them dearly, he almost wishes he could’ve stayed in the dark.

The bath water, because he had not planned on enjoying it, was cold. Patty’s hand, however, was warmer. Warm against his shoulder, warm on his cheeks. Warm when it wiped the tears away and took the razors off the porcelain, no matter how frightened her eyes were. Her fingers held tight, tangled with his own while he shook. Her voice never wavered when she called Michael back, with a promise of  _ we’ll come, Mike. He won’t leave without me. _

Patty, in her 41 years of life, had never, ever, broken a promise. The night they met, she promised to never make fun of him; to always believe him, no matter how silly or strange his predicament, as long as she could smile to herself. He had agreed with a laugh and a blush that spread across his face like wildfire, an embarrassment, then, but a happy memory now.

When Stan explained Derry--all of Derry, with every foggy detail he could remember--she had maintained that promise. So well, in fact, that she hadn’t let go of his shaking hand until she was climbing into the driver’s side of their rental car in Maine and was forced to. She listened to his explanation, stone-faced, hugged him while he sobbed naked into her shoulder, and bought a plane ticket on her phone the first chance she got.

Walking through the doors of the Jade was like a breath of fresh air. The air in Derry, especially when Stan was a child but still that day, still now, was sick. Something in it was suffocating, deafening, it was air that went into your lungs and contaminated them. Turned them black as stone without a single cigarette. His friends purified it. Made it something worth breathing. 

Patty had told the others nothing of their frantic night before. Stan was glad; it was the opposite of what they needed to hear. The 8 of them were living in this calm before the storm, and it seemed only three of them at the table truly knew the destruction it would cause. Stan knew. Patty knew. Mike, of course, knew the most. Knew more intimately than any of them ever would.

On the phone, Stan had remembered the bad things. The terror, the dread, the way his stomach seemed to curl in on itself and squeeze until it felt like nothing more than a pit, heavy and overwhelming. The way his hands, fingers tightened over the handle of a flashlight, had shook. Dark tunnels and women with too many teeth. 

In the Jade, happier memories were starting to rear their heads. He’d glance at Eddie and remember a shouting match, one that made him laugh. He’d hear Beverly’s calming voice and think of nights spent on the floor of the clubhouse, counting stars through the slats and listening to her breathing. He’d see Richie and visualize, almost perfectly, hours of interrupted birdwatching, a body to his left that could never stay still. He’ll see Mike and think of comfort. Of days spent on the farm, of promises of rare birds and nothing but pigeons. Of a movie theater and a buttery kiss in the dark.

Mike. Oh, fuck. Mike. The memories hit him like a freight train, heavy and overwhelming. 

Stanley hadn’t been in love with Mike. He could’ve been, if they had more time, if he’d  _ understood,  _ but he wasn’t. They had both sat teetering on that childish edge of fairytale romance, legs knocking against each other and hands held tight but words never spoken. Stan remembered, with his hands held tight to his chopsticks, one night in particular: a night where Mike had stayed up all night on the phone with him and let him spew facts about the things that he loved, a tactic that only few knew would calm him down.

Life after IT had been terrifying, but it would’ve been worse without Mike by his side.

He wanted to say something. Had to say something. Had to thank him, for the hours he spent making Stan feel like the world was okay. The Losers’ laughter was loud, excitable, stories being shared and new memories being created--tales of their lives now, the things they’ve done in the gap this monster created--and Stan could not break through it. Anytime he’d thought the moment was right another topic would break loose or they’d separate into smaller groups of conversation and he could find no entryway. 

Mike was gorgeous. Was when they were a child but even more so now. He’d grown into himself well, with short dark hair and a long, broad frame. His shirt, though cut wrong, was attractive--a plaid button down and a dark green solid color tee underneath--and Stan thought every bit of him was even more handsome than he remembered. 

The rest of dinner had gone... not so well. Mike had revealed what they were really here for and chaos broke loose. Patty had held herself strong in front of Stan, protective, with an arm around his front and a terrified look spread across her face. He told her afterwards, and he had meant it with everything in him, that she could go. She could go home, and he would fight these horrors alone. She stayed.

They fought. Fought and fought and fought. And they won. Reluctant as the 7, now 8, of them were, they trekked down into the depths and came out bloodied but victorious. Though Stan had suffered minor injuries, the morale was as high as it had ever been. When they watched the house at the end of Neibolt street fall, they watched with exhausted smiles on their faces. 

The other losers, emboldened by their victory and calmed by promises of remembering this time, trickled out of Derry one by one. Ben and Beverly, with their relationship still titleless but somehow silently understood, left together. Though Eddie made his way to New York, plans of travel to Chicago were in his not-so-distant future. Bill went back to his wife, Audra, with a promise of explanations and to never scare her that badly again. Mike stayed, at least for the time he needed to pack up his things. Stan and Patty stayed too.

Mike’s attic home was beautiful. Stan hadn’t had the chance to see it before they’d killed IT; it was a large, open plan space, littered with ancient books and scribbled papers, doodles of friends and abstract thoughts, black and white photos and newspaper clippings. Brown wooden walls and loose slats in the floor. The room only had one window, a circular thing, decorated with black iron and too foggy to really see through. Once you got past the overwhelming smell of mothballs and dust, it was kind of nostalgic. Like a clubhouse. A secret hiding place that shouted  _ Mike  _ so loudly it felt as though he had melded with the very foundation.

“There’s not much to pack up,” Mike had told them, grateful and floundering. He had tried for several hours to convince them to just go home, that he didn’t need any help, but the two of them were unwavering in their endless support. “Most of the books belong to the library, and a lot of the papers can just go in the trash. I don’t want to--if I don’t have to think about it anymore, you know?”

They helped out. Packed books into boxes and back onto shelves, put postcards and letters in folders for safekeeping. Patty blew dust off of old board games and laughed when it made Mike sneeze. Stan found hundreds of journals, all filled out over the years Mike sat alone--and Mike promised, one day, that he may have the courage to share them. The oldest, with its dusty cover and browning pages, must’ve been as old as the day Stanley left, if not older. A label on the cover read, in scrawled childish font,  _ Property of The Losers Club: Do not open. _

Mike and Patty did a lot of talking when they thought Stan couldn’t hear. Apologies, forgiveness, stories of lives they never could’ve shared. Laughter Stan was sure was directed at him, no matter how loving. Stan wanted, with a sudden, powerful urge, for them to get along. He wanted so badly for her to like all of his friends and every single one of their quirks that he himself had come to admire so dearly, but he wanted her to like Mike the most. 

There were many things about Patty that he loved. All of her was a vague answer--though it was true--but if he had to pick: her stubbornness, for one. Her support and her unwavering stance in life, always one to stand tall when those around her are failing. The way she fought through her past, through the things that hurt her, and came out victorious. The way she whispers to the flowers in the garden. The way she somehow, after all these years, still manages to surprise him. 

When they had finished packing, and all of Mike’s things were either in old cardboard boxes or packed away in backpacks and duffle bags, Mike had said “It’s weird how little there is, but I guess this is it,” and Patty had told him  _ It doesn’t have to be. _

“What?” Mike had said, a messenger bag stuffed to the brim hooked over his shoulder and a jacket over his arm, a caricature of a man ready to head out and start a new life. Her words had stopped him in his tracks completely, turning first to Stan with a baffled look before he faced her.

“I’m just saying,” she told him, smiling, “you could come home with us. You told me you have no place to stay, and I think you deserve a home that loves you after all these years.” And then she had turned to Stan with a look so knowing that it ached, deep down in his soul. 

Knowing someone, truly knowing, in an intimate way that there’s no real way to describe, is another thing about love Stan never thought he’d understand. Not until--and this is spitballing, because he may have known before he was aware of it--he looked right into Patty’s eyes on their wedding night and said  _ Oh, I get it, now I do _ and hadn’t questioned it since. He’s still not sure if he likes it.

Mike, though worried about intruding, had agreed. His nod that night in his barren apartment led them to where they are now, packed together on the couch and laughing at a show only Patty really understands, an old game show about supermarkets and racing to finish shopping on time. Whatever they are, whatever it means when Patty kisses them both goodnight--they haven’t put a name to it yet. It started as StanandPatty and now it's StanandPattyandMike and Mike has carved himself into their little home and into their hearts and the space that would be left if he were to go would be cavernous. 

Mike’s addition, although welcome, has confused Stan to no end. He thought he understood romantic love. Could’ve spent hours writing soliloquies on it, if he was more of a poet, but Mike walks in and he’s suddenly upended, full of love he thought he could not bear, was sure he could not give. Patty was it for him--until she wasn’t, anymore. Until his heart that had already grown three sizes pushed itself a little further and allowed for more room.

And it’s not as though Patty isn’t interested in this. They talked about it for days, the two of them, how much they loved having Mike around, what a fine addition he was to the family, how even when he was doing something as simple as sitting down and reading he looked beautiful. It’s an agreement between all three of them, a relationship. A real one. And he’s happy to have it. Mike’s arm around his shoulder feels just as good as Patty’s hand on his thigh, both warm and all-encompassing, both holding him tight.

He’s just amazed that romantic love can be something so fantastic, so concrete and  _ real _ , and yet have no simple definition at all. There’s so much to this world that Stan doesn’t understand, and finally,  _ finally _ , he’s not afraid of it anymore.

“Alright,” Patty says, when the episode ends and the Netflix  _ Are you still watching? _ notification fades their screen to a gentle gray. Stan is sandwiched between the two of them on the couch, Mike to his right and Patty to his left with her legs on his lap, all three with their limbs in a tangle so complicated he’s afraid standing up might just make them all roll onto the floor. She turns to them, smile gentle in the soft yellow light from the lamp, and wiggles her toes under the blanket.

“Look at you two,” she says, “two lovebirds, all for me.”

Mike laughs. Stan can feel his chest when it moves, up and down and deep beneath his ribs. 

“How much wine have you had?” He says on the end of his laugh, gesturing slightly with his own glass. The wine sloshes dangerously but does not drip onto the tan carpet of their living room. 

“Two--” Patty says, and then eyes the glass in her hands for a moment too long, “three.”

“Okay, bedtime for all of us.”

Patty whines “Noooooo,” but makes no attempt to stop Mike from getting up, even curling in on herself a bit to allow for easier access. He helps Stanley up first and then moves to Patty’s side, pulling her up and holding her against his chest when she wobbles. Stan smiles.

“Up, up,” Mike whispers, holding Patty by the shoulders and chanting it like a little song. She’s swaying like she’s on a boat out at sea, and when she catches Stan staring she grins back, wide and carefree. He moves to help Mike, and the two of them get her up the stairs with minimal effort. Despite her height, she’s not actually that hard to wrangle.

“We need a bigger bed,” she declares proudly at their bedroom door, waving a fist in the air. Stan shares an amused glance with Mike over her shoulders. “We need a bigger bed, ‘cause I wanna be… in the middle.”

“You already sleep in the middle,” Stan reminds her, gently nudging her towards the bed. He takes the wine glass out of her hand in a smooth motion, placing it on the far side of the bedside table. “We don’t need a bigger bed for that.”

“Yeah,” she says, grinning, “but maybe we’ll need more space eventually. For other things.”

Mike coughs, though he’s grinning. Stan raises his eyebrows. Patty, seemingly unaware, flops backwards onto the bed and grins up at them. Her hair is spread wildly around her head, haloed in a black sort of swirling pattern. Stan wants, so badly, to climb in bed next to her and fall asleep. His limbs are aching and he’s just tipsy enough that everything’s sort of hazy, and the bed looks inviting in the evening light. Mike, who clearly cares less about the fact that she’s lying horizontally across the bed instead of up against the pillows, does exactly that. 

“Come join us!” He calls, too loud for the small room. Patty giggles and repeats his chant, waving her arms back and forth. Who is Stan to refuse them?

The fabric of the comforter is velvet under his skin, and it soothes him the moment he makes contact with it. Pressing up onto his hands and knees, he crawls into the open space next to Patty and flops down next to her with a little ‘ _ oof’. _ The mattress shifts infinitesimally when he lands, and all that does is make Patty giggle more.

They curl up together. Each slide of limbs seems to fit together perfectly, each a little puzzle piece connected in a line. Mike’s leg slots over Patty’s, she shifts until she’s facing Stan, Stan wraps an arm around Patty and presses a hand to Mike’s chest, etc. It’s cold, lying above the blankets, but their body heat is enough to make it comfortable. 

When Stan falls asleep, it’s to the rhythm of their breathing. When he dreams, it’s birds, and constellations, and Orion; three stars in a line.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter @transkaspbrak :)


End file.
